trees, planes, and old birches cast impenetrable shadows upon the ground. The air was fresher and moister, In an old fountain, where a moss-covered, armless nymph had long ago ceased to pour forth water, lay a heap of rotting leaves. Here and there a broken bench clung in the shade of the foliage. The tree-tops trembled with a melancholy noise.
Lucy walked softly, warily, as if afraid to disturb the dreams of that dead past.
“Walk more softly!” she suddenly heard some one say.
She stopped, frightened. The branch of a hornbeam was moved aside, and there, on a bench, sat the consumptive man, that strange acquaintance of hers of the previous day. He looked peacefully at her, his right eye was turned away,—the green shade lay upon his sunken cheeks. Lucy stood still, something kept her back,—and she looked at his bony hand. Pity took possession of
